


how prettily he foots it with his hands

by Kt_fairy



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Anal Sex, Boys Being Boys, Drinking, First Times, James In A Dress, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Period Typical Attitudes, Pre-Canon, for a bit, porn with a bit of plot, rated M for Midshipman FJ
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:48:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24422296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: “What could have made your attention wander my way, my noble Royal Marine?” James asked in the breathless voice. He flicked open his fan with a satisfying crack, the marine snorting in amusement when James fluttered it by his face.ORMr Fitzjames stars in a play, and gets quite a memorable standing ovation.
Relationships: Commander James Fitzjames/Sgt Solomon Tozer
Comments: 12
Kudos: 39





	how prettily he foots it with his hands

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from that [notoriously eyebrow-raising play](https://books.google.co.uk/books?id=Mm9ZAAAAcAAJ&lpg=PA17&pg=PR8#v=onepage&q&f=false) FJ did drag for on Malta, which is also quoted in the fic.
> 
> MsKingBean is the reason this exists at all, and I bow at her feet.

“ _Gentlemen! I’m not for marriage, But according to your..._ _carriage_ _,”_ James paused as a tide of laughter - half hysterical at this point - rolled over the stage. He threw a knowing glance out at the roistering mass of men in the stalls, then flicked his eyes up to the circle where someone had whistled at him, winking at no-one in particular as he waited for the noise to die down enough for him to continue. 

“ _As you both behave tonight!”_ he proclaimed to the two other midshipmen playing his to-be lovers, who were trying very hard not to giggle. _“You shall be paid tomorrow.”_

The ache in his cheeks, and the soreness of his ribs - that were so neatly constricted by his stays - was worth it for the thunderous tumult of hoots and applause that met the end of their bawdy little play. 

James soaked it all up, of course he did. No man allowed himself to be rigged up in yards of buttercup yellow silk and lace, with strings and strings of paste pearls about his neck, if he was not in the business of basking in a little bit of adoration. His blood was pumping so fast he was sure everyone could hear it, and for the moment he could forget how the heat of Malta even in October, combined with the burning bright gaslights, made the packed theatre feel dark and horribly stuffy.

He snapped out his fan as he stood centre stage, fluttering it with demure, ladylike (and, frankly, useless) grace as he waited for all his fellow cast mates to assemble so they could take their bows. John Boyd, whose mishap with his sword was one of the first true moments of hilarity of the night, got his own cheer as he hurried on stage. He received it with his typical good grace, hazel eyes bright with mirth as he gave an elegant, courtly bow to the crowd, and then to James, before slipping into the neat rank of midshipmen to stand beside him.

“Talk of the town, eh Jack,” James said to him from behind his fan while the garrison captain, who had organised the evening's festivities, tried to quieten the crowd enough to thank his cast. 

“We were all upstaged as soon you made your entrance in that dress, and you know it,” Jack shot back.

James grinned, because he did know it. He tossed his long, unbound hair off of his bare shoulders as he went to curtsey as well as he could, making sure to flash an ankle at the marines in the front row who jostled one another and whistled at him. 

“If you carry on being brazen,” Jack yelled in his ear as James’ little display got the crowd going again. "They might shake this old shell down.”

“Don’t be such an old maid, Jack” James looked around at the elderly elegance of the Valletta theatre; the cracked plaster beneath the gilding on the boxes, the faded curtains and worn carpets, and the mouldings on the ceiling that were smeared with soot from the candles lighting the edges of the wide, dark room. 

The theatre was even older than its decor, comprising of extensions and tacked on rooms to make it into a more modern building to suit the tastes of the British stationed on Malta. Their was no direct route backstage from the dark, narrow wings; they could only exit by hurrying down a short flight of steps at the edge of the stage and out of a side door, so the cast ended up waiting for enough of the audience to depart before they made their escape. 

The pitch black space was made cramped by James’ skirts, and so damnably stifling that his hair began to stick to his neck with sweat. He got a mid from the _Madagascar -_ who had played the king - to hand James one of the bottles of claret they had stashed back here, James unstopping it with his teeth to take a swig, the contents so heated and vile that it made him wince, before offering it to Boyd.

“This is worse than bloody Istanbul,” Boyd muttered, refusing the bottle in favour of trying to steal James’ fan, hissing when he got a smack on the back of the hand with it. “Bloody hell, Jim. You might capture a whole fleet of pirates with how you wield that thing!”

“It is eleven years of keeping your thieving hands at bay,” James said archly as he snapped the fan open, trying to waft it so they might both benefit from what breeze it gave. 

Boyd rolled his eyes, and turned to peer around the thick, velvet curtain at the stalls, the gaslights catching the buttons on his uniform coat. “Are we hiding here because we are too proud to admit we are stuck, or are we protecting your virtue after you recklessly flashed your ankles?”

“I think you’ll find that was the traditional curtsy of _Queerumania_ , don't-cha-know,” James pointed out, giving a tight lipped smile when Boyd let out his wonderful dry laugh. 

“There was a time a flash of ankle was only for me,” he teased, and James stopped himself from huffing at him.

“Yes, and a time when you would be trying to steal anything by my fan,” he shot back, thinking that if this were a year ago, Boyd would be slipping his agile fingers up under the bodice. 

“The examination board is already dithering about passing your lieutenants exam. You can’t take risks, Jim.”

James shot him a dark look, well aware of how precarious his career had always been thanks to the trail of lies and falsified documents that hid his origins. He did not need Boyd, who’s own examination had seen him coolly relegate the past two inquisitive, desire filled years to the recklessness of youth, to tell him so.

“Says the man hiding behind a curtain,” James huffed as he thumped the cork back into the bottle, Boyd tripping after James as he stomped out of the wings.

The half empty theatre still echoed with the mumbling chatter of the departing audience. James felt his mood lift when he attracted some calls of congratulations on his acting, and a few more lewd ones from men who did not care about those higher ranking officers still seated in the boxes. 

James had a peculiar relationship with attention. He had been brought up to shy away from it, lest it fall directly on him and his parentage. Which he did as well as he might - however, being seen, maybe even being lauded, when you did not even have a name, had a pull all of its own. 

Jack may not know the ins and outs of all that, but he knew James well enough both to judge his mood and how to temper it. He made a gallant show of aiding a darling young queen down the shadowy stairs, bowing low and doffing his cap as he held a hand out to him. 

“I do not think, sir,” James had said with a ruffle of his fan, aware of the lingering crowd milling closer to him. “That I dare accept the arm of a man who has such loose control of his sword.”

Hoots of laughter met that, and a cheer went up when Boyd unsheathed the offending item to hold it aloft, still dusty at the end from where he had managed to get it stuck in the stage, and declared, "Your majesty! I should say you must be used to young men's swords becoming trapped in your boards.”

James meant it when he smacked Boyd on the side of the head with the flat of his fan, making sure to disrupt his sandy hair. An action that drew rather jolly, melodramatic " _oooohs_ " from those sailors and soldiers looking on.

“Oh me, oh my!” James said breathlessly, raising his wrist to his forehead in an affected, delicate faint. “To hear such lewdness. Oh! My virtuous ears!” he batted his eyes at the group of marines who had been watching from the foot of the stage, as they could usually be relied upon to be good sports. “Oh! Oh who will save me from this villain!”

“Right you,” one of the privates, who looked to be no older than James, said at once, a dimpled grin on his face as he jabbed his thumb at Boyd in the universal sign for ‘go away’. “Leave _Her Majesty_ alone, or it’s the guard house fer you!”

There was some good humoured verbal jousting then, as both crew and marines could always get away with a certain amount of it with midshipmen. James joined in, of course, but found his attention wandering over to the first marine who had spoken. He was in possession of as fine a figure as any marine illustrated in the Gazette, and strikingly handsome in a rough and tumble sort of way. His broad face was tanned by the Mediterranean sun that blazed even in the autumn, and had caught the curling ends of his hair in its fingertips to turn them golden.

Now, being a sailor meant that strapping young men were not a novelty to James. However, being a sailor, and a midshipman to boot, meant that he dare not pay much attention to them. James thought the character of the queen he was still half playing might be the reason he dared it this evening, casting glances the marines' way while he fidgeted with his fan like a young lady at a dance.

It was only a matter of time before James was caught, turning away quickly when the marine looked over at him. He hoped the spots of rouge high on his cheeks hid the flush he could feel creeping up his neck and onto his face, James smoothing out a piece of lace on his skirt before he raised his eyes again.

The marine did not look displeased, nor was he leering at James in the way he had come to expect from men whose attention he drew (who then either tried to charm or corner him into getting what they wanted). His glance, shadowed as it was in the gloom of the stalls, travelled gently over James, undemanding in its lightness, and when his eyes rose to meet James’ once more, neither of them looked away.

It was no drawn out, weighty gaze of desire, but it lasted just long enough for that certain type of understanding to pass between them. An understanding James knew should leave alone. Yet, the excitement of being so applauded on stage had his blood up, and if he were to crash out of the navy through no fault of his own, but because the examining captains knew his damnable father had lied on his birth certificate, then he might as well make the most of all the things it opened up to him.

Besides, not many men could make a pulse of heat settle between one’s legs with only a look.

He flicked open his fan with a satisfying crack, the marine snorting in amusement when James fluttered it by his face, giving the half empty bottle of claret a shake. 

“What could have made your attention wander my way, my noble Royal Marine?” he asked in the breathless voice he had put on for the queen, revelling in how easy it was to draw attention his way when he was trussed up in silk. 

“Merely admiring the size of your pearls, madam,” the marine said without missing a beat, and James had to tip his head back and laugh along with everyone else. 

He was still being watched when he looked back, and James made a show of huffing his hair out of his face, fanning himself more like a mid than a queen as he spoke to their small crowd. “T’is frightful hot, I fear I must depart,” he pronounced, aware of Jack looking at him as he held his hand out towards the private. “Escort me somewhere cool, and I might show you more of my pearls.”

There were plenty of cat calls and jocularity as the marine offered James his arm, everyone behaving as if he were really going off with a bawdy lady. They made a show of James being escorted to the side door that led backstage, James well aware of how silly it was to feel a rush of giddiness at the charmingly cocky grin on the man's handsome face.

“Well,” James said once they had moved through the dark, narrow passage and into the main, cluttered corridor backstage that was empty apart from a couple of the garrison officers, their animated talking echoing off the high walls as they made their way down towards the stage door. 

“Drink?”

He uncorked the bottle and handed it to the marine, who tipped it towards him with a, “to your good health.” He took a sip, pulling a face at the overwarm contents before taking another hearty swig, James watching the bob of his throat under his collar.

“Have you ever been backstage before?” he asked conversationally when the marine turned back to him. The unintended innuendo took a moment to land on them both, and James felt wholly charmed when they both snickered at it like the young men they were.

“Can't say as I have,” the marine said lightly, having a look around before turning to James. The lamp light was stronger here, and James could see the slight pink across his nose and high cheekbones from the strength of the Mediterranean sun, and thought it only added to his robust handsomeness. “If you are happy to show me about, I wouldn’t say no.”

"Be my pleasure," James murmured, beckoning the marine to follow him with a wave of his fan, hiking up his skirts and leading the way up the corridor to a faded, red painted door. "This is the most singularly exciting room in the whole place."

The marine looked from James, to the door, then back again. "Is it now?"

"T'is the costume store!" James opened his eyes wide in theatrical wonder as he pushed open the door, feeling pleased when the marines warm brown eyes glittered in amusement.

A window set high in the far, whitewashed wall let in enough of the lamplight from the street outside to allow James to light the two lanterns left by the door. They illuminated the stacked chests and bolts of fabric lining the walls, glinting off the stage armour piled in the corners, the shadows flickering over the walls as James picked his way across the long, rectangular room towards the painted screens where he had been dressed up that morning.

"If you will give me a moment," James said softly, throwing a look over his shoulder at the marine who was holding his lantern up to look about the room, seemingly in no hurry to commence this dalliance.

"Of course," he said easily, looking so fine and upright in his smart red coat, the body beneath filling out every inch of it, that James almost fell to his knees right there and damn the borrowed silk skirts.

He had promised the ladies of the theatre that he would take good care of this very fine frock they lent him, so hurried off behind the screen where he had stowed his clothes before his cock won out over his conscience.

His first order of business was unwrapping the ribbon from about his wrist so he could tie all his hair back, sighing at how much better it felt now that air could touch the back of his neck. It was easier to unbutton the bodice and unlace the stays than it had been to get in them, but James found himself missing the satisfying pressure of the whalebone stays against his skin as he folded them neatly to set aside. He hung the strings of pearls carefully over the edge of the screen, then almost tumbled over in his haste to get out of the rustling petticoats, muttering curses under his breath as he regained his balance before hopping into his trousers. 

It was then, as he dragged his thin linen shirt on over his head, that a sobering thought came to him. The marine knew perfectly well that James was a man, but a dress might make permissible what trousers would not. As for his uniform, that might scare his man off all together, as not everyone was in the business of buggering midshipmen.

James peered around the screen, looking over to where the other man was running a gentle hand over one of the rolled up backdrops, bottle tucked under his arm. He steeled himself, then stepped out in his half unbuttoned shirt and trousers. 

The movement caused the marine turn towards him, eyes moving over James in the same honestly appreciative manner as before. “That’s quite a transformation.”

“Yes. The dress is borrowed you see, from the theatre, and I’m sure that wearing it all day has creased the silk already, so I should not like to --”

“I wasn’t complaining,” the marine said as he crossed the room, standing so close that James could feel the warmth radiating from him. “A lack of pearls doesn't change my mind.”

"Good," James murmured. His pulse, that had been drumming with excitement for most of the evening, picked up as he met the marine’s intent gaze; a heat to match the stuffy, rosemary scented air about them settling in his gut.

He reached out, tucking his fingertips up under the bottom of the marine’s jacket to pull him with him as James stepped backwards behind the screen. The marine set his cargo down on one of the costume boxes, the lantern adding to the pool of golden light surrounding them, and took James' face in his hands to kiss him. He tasted of tobacco and wine, the headiness making James groan as he was pushed back against the cool stone wall with so much purpose James felt coltish and awkward for the first time in years.

He put his hands to the marine’s waist, then lay one on his chest, palm passing over the cool brass buttons as he smoothed his hand up to curl around the back of the marine's neck. The thick wool of his standing collar was hot, the edge damp with clean sweat, and James dug his fingers in to pull the marine closer as he arched his back. 

They both gasped when their pricks, already hard with the eagerness of youth, pressed together, the angle awkward, and the marine grasped James’ thigh as if to pick up his leg to hook about him. James had never allowed himself to be manhandled, and resisted the firm grip that shifted at once to his hip, holding James as the marine slotted a thigh between his own.

“What do you want?” James panted as the marine’s kisses moved down past the collar of his open shirt to nip at the base of his throat, breath catching when he rolled their hips together. 

“What do _I_ want?” was echoed back to him distractedly, the private raising his head to look at James as his hand moved to grasp backside. Which James took to be a more polite signal of intent than the crude things he had suffered to be whispered into his ear on these occasions, but then he seemed to have rather a gallant marine kneading his left buttock. 

“Yes, what would you want?”

The marine leaned away, the way he regarded James more searching than before. Then he took half a step back that had James trying not to whine at the loss of his weight and warmth, and the heavy line of his cock pressing against him.

Christ, but James wanted him. He was hardly oversexed, not like some other junior officers he could name, and maybe that was why this man’s earnest handsomeness, and the way the powerful body his red coat promised had been used with no force at all, lit James with desire. For one half hysterical moment James allowed himself to think how all the Greek poets would have gone wild for such a man, and then the marine dropped to his knees, and all that went through his mind was, ' _oh Christ!'_

He froze, never having been on the receiving end of this attention before, grabbing desperately onto the marine’s shoulder as his trousers were unbuttoned and his shirt pushed out of the way. 

“Rather large type of pearl this,” the marine said with enough lightness for James to understand it was a joke, but he could not say he understood it. The strong hand on his prick was rather distracting him though, and when the marine put his mouth on him, every single thought fled from James’ head. 

The way the marine twisted his fist over the base of James’ stand in time with the wet slide of his lips up over the end of James' prick, was almost more than he could bear. He failed at keeping a hiccuping moan in his throat, so bit at the thin sleeve of his shirt, the unpleasant sensation of the linen between his teeth the only thing keeping him from falling apart at the seams.

Which was just as well, for when the marine pressed his tongue to the underside of his prick, like past dalliances had encouraged James to do, he felt such a jolt go through him he thought he could have spilled. His fingers scrambled over the shape of the marine’s epaulette and the facings on his collar as he tried to stop his hips rolling up to meet the bob of the marine’s head, knowing how unpleasant that could be.

With a wet, filthy pop the marine pulled off his prick. He kept his hand moving over James as he swallowed twice, reaching up to catch James’ hand and hold it still as he wrapped his lips back around him again.

It was not long until James felt himself tensing, the sweat at his temples going ignored as he grasped both of the marine’s broad shoulders. He was reduced to open mouthed panting that he hoped the marine would take as a warning, for his end came roaring up on him like a squall - quick and wild and inevitable.

The marine did not take his mouth away until James felt his cock stop twitching in the hot confines of his mouth. He let out a great sigh when the marine let him slip out from between his lips, the rough wall scraping at James’ shoulders through his shirt as he sagged against it. 

Everything felt hazy and heightened, James blinking groggily at a peculiar water stain on the ceiling, flushing when the marine coughed to clear his throat. 

James regained control of his flopped out limbs to pick up the almost empty bottle of claret, straightening to look down at where his handsome, gallant marine was still kneeling, rubbing his palm over the (quite remarkable) bulge in his trousers. James ran his tongue around his dry mouth, knocking the marine’s leg gently with the side of his foot to make him look up, the candlelight catching the wetness on his lips and the flush on his cheeks. 

“Here,” James said, holding out the bottle. “Stop that, as well. After what you did, I can hardly allow it.”

The marine’s eyes flashed even as his hand stopped moving. “ _You_ can’t _allow_ it?”

James may have sounded haughty, but then his brain was rather like cold porridge. He wiped the sweat from his face on the back of his wrist, then ran his fist carefully over his sensitive prick to gather up what wetness there still was. The marines’ affront turned into curious interest when James sucked his own fingers into his mouth, eyes widening when James tucked his hand into the back of his trousers to press himself open.

“Fucking hell,” the marine ground out when James’ breath hitched, taking the bottle from James as he hopped quickly to his feet. He downed what was left of the wine without taking his eyes off James, dropping it carelessly onto the rug as he made to kiss James again, only to hesitate at the last moment.

“No, no do - yes kiss me,” James babbled, grasping onto the arm of his jacket to pull him closer, sighing when the marine licked the taste of claret and James’ own essence into his mouth. He slipped a hand into James’ trousers and curled their fingers together, gently touching where James was stretched around two of his own fingers. “Yes, yes,” James panted, biting his lip against an oversensitive mewl when a dry finger pressed into him, his own cock twitching back into life. 

“Christ,” the marine rumbled, the heavy line of his cock pressing against James’ thigh. His other hand came to tangle in James’ hair, tugging at the ribbon keeping it all contained. “Can I?”

“If you like,” James murmured, knowing that even now, half damp with sweat and having been unbound all day, the marine would not find one tangle as he trailed his fingers through the shining locks. 

The marine removed his hand from James’ trousers when he moved his own. There was a slightly wild look in his eyes as he let James cup his palm to spit twice onto it, before James hiked his shirt up and turned to brace himself against the wall. 

There was the sound of more spitting as he pushed his trousers down from where they were clinging to his hips. He took deep, steady breaths as a thumb pressed against his entrance, then the blunt head of the marine’s prick was shoved into him roughly enough to make James suck a sharp breath in between his teeth.

The marine stopped at once, half inside of him, touching James’ side in what he took to be an apology. At a nod from James he pressed forward with more care, curling over James to rest his forehead on his shoulder once he was fully mounted. 

“This won't take long,” he whispered, and James reached back to grasp a handful of his coat.

“I should take that as a compliment,” he threw over his shoulder, ignoring the heavy heat between his own legs.

“I bet you would,” the marine muttered, a smile clear in his voice.

He wrapped his solid arm around James to haul him more upright, other hand grasping James’ hip as he began to rock into him. He was breathing hard already, and began to mutter oaths under his breath when James bowed his back in order to feel the perfect pressure of the marine’s prick slide just so inside him, shifting his weight onto his heels so he could push back into the marine's thrusts. 

“ _Christ_ ,” the marine ground out, pressing his face into James’ hair as he fumbled between James' legs to grasp his cock. “You like this?” he asked without a hint of teasing or boasting in his voice, and James felt his already flushed face heat further as he nodded.

His marine grunted something unintelligible, kneading James’ prick as he began fucking him hard, sending whirls of desperate, clenching heat through James, the pleasure so bright and raw it almost hurt him. James had to put his sleeve back between his teeth lest he sob or beg or cry out as he shook to pieces for the second time that night, the intensity of it bordering on unpleasant. 

James only half heard the string of curses that met his release. The marine pulled out so suddenly it made James gasp, and a moment later, when he felt hot, wet streaks paint his lower back, James let out a long, ragged breath, feeling as if his legs were about to give out under him. 

He was young though, just turned twenty, and after a minute or two where they both leant against the wall - James face first and the marine with his shoulders against the stone work - he felt less as if he were going to swoon. 

James passed over his handkerchief to allow the marine to clean his hand and, frankly, wonderful prick. The two of them shared a half awkward, tight lipped smile when the marine also cleaned off James' back. Then, as if they had not just shared in the intimate vice of the Greeks, the marine stepped back around the screen to let James finish dressing. 

He felt as heavy limbed and bleary eyed as when he had to get up for the Morning Watch. He was full of satisfying aches as well, and that slowed him down somewhat, but he was feeling as well fucked out as he had since his time in Greece, so did not care all that much about how he might twinge for days after this.

James stepped around the screen, crossing gingerly over to where the marine was perched on the box waiting for him. 

“All right?”

“Yes,” James smiled, handing him the lantern as he tied up his hair again, aware of the marine watching him quietly. “Shall we attempt to catch up with our friends and comrades?”

“Night is young,” the marine agreed, stretching his back like a satisfied cat. “Although I might not last all of it.”

“Quite,” James hummed. “Well, if we cannot find them, we can furnish ourselves a drink and you can toast my fine performances.”

The marine shook his head at him, the shadows doing little to hide his smile, and stood. “Come on then,” he jerked his head towards the door. “Suppose you’ve done more than enough to deserve it.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- Boyd's incident with the sword comes from JFJ's biography, and I'll quote it here in case some reader's have not had a chance to read it and don't know what the fuck I'm on about;
> 
> _"John Boyd's dramatic entree was rather spoiled because he 'entered with such energy and vehemence that he stuck his sword so deep in the boards as not to be able, without some trouble, to get it out'. Fitzjames wrote, so that when he finally freed it the 'recoil nearly [sent] him into the pit.'"_


End file.
